Hidden Sweets
by Galythia
Summary: Arthur has lived thirty years of his life with an adamant dislike for all things sweet. It made him sick to the stomach just to think about them. So when he gets drunk one day and wanders into Claire de Lune, a shop run by the up-and-coming pastry chef Alfred Jones, just what sort of life surprise lies in store for him? (Sweethearts Week 2013).


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of Hetalia. If I did, there'd only be angst and no fluff, so you should count your blessings.

* * *

**Hidden Sweets**

* * *

I hate sweets. I always have. Everything from cakes to pies to ice cream—none of it sits well with me. I don't know where this dislike started, but even as a child, I could barely even stand candy without getting sick (my mother has never stopped telling the story of how I even dressed up as a waiter one day for Halloween, walking around with a tray of the candy I had collected just so that others would think I was giving them away again. And of course, I let them have it; Halloween was only a useless holiday for candy companies to get their fill, after all).

But yes, I hated sweet things. I think it's just the taste of sweetness in general, since I've always taken my tea straight, I've always liked sour fruits over sweeter ones, and I tend to not like the smell of most flowers either.

I had always thought that this was a part of me that would never change, considering it was so strong and constant. I had always thought that no matter what I did, where I went, or how I lived, my dislike for sweets would be right there with me. Well, I guess I was right, because what ended up affecting me weren't any of those aforementioned factors.

I changed because of _whom I met_.

I live in this little neighborhood that is almost completely residential. It's far enough away from the highway to be quiet, but close enough still to be quite expensive because of its convenience. But I had a decent job as your everyday, average salary man, which meant that I could afford it if I had no one else to support.

I wasn't happy about the fact that I _could_ afford it. Being single was terrible.

The last sweetheart I had had was back in college, and we broke up on the day of graduation. It was my idea, actually, though in hindsight, it might have been the stupidest idea I have ever had. My boyfriend was an absolute sweetheart, and he doted upon me to no end (yes, I'm gay. If you have a problem with that, you ought to leave now, because it's only going to get gayer and gayer from here. I am going to let the homosexuality rain down upon you and open your eyes in enlightenment).

But as I was saying, my boyfriend was amazing. He treated me wonderfully, catered to my every need, and in return, I did a lot of the same. Everyone expected us to last—including him as well. However, I had other ideas.

My life was just beginning at that point. Who knew what people I would meet? Who knew where I would end up going? There was still so much to discover, and I didn't want to be held down by anything as I faced my shining life beyond. I had the brilliant concept that perhaps I would end up encountering someone new, and I wanted to be single at that time so that I could date a variety of people before finally settling down.

Well, it's obvious how that turned out.

I went around experiencing my "freedom" without much care until I had somehow walked unknowingly into the age of thirty. And then it hit me.

It hit me _hard_.

Almost a decade had passed since I had dated anyone, so long that I had almost even forgotten how to do it. I had been so caught up in my work, finding success in the eyes of society, becoming "wealthy," that I hadn't even noticed until _eight years had passed_.

Was I even datable material anymore?

I tried to find out in the most overt way possible, which meant making my way to the "gay quarter" in my area. I knew some people here and there, but in general, I was just a stranger. That meant that I could start fresh, meet new potentials for the first time, and see for myself just what I was worth.

Apparently, I wasn't worth much.

It was simply that I was old, compared to many in the area. All the kids had this way of acting that I didn't remember ever being "cool" before. They used words that definitely had true dictionary meanings which they were completely ignoring, they preferred to hump and undulate upon the floor, rather than _dance_, and they had a general sense of fashion that I found completely unattractive (when did neon ever become "the thing"?).

Being around them depressed me. Even their ways of flirting was new. Back in my day—god, was I even thinking that? I _must_ have been old. I was _so_ old. Too old.

I left after one night of unfruitful efforts, and I never went back. I couldn't take it anymore, all the love and heat floating around and passing me right by. I had never even realized how lonely I was until then, and when I did see it, the feeling didn't leave, no matter how hard I tried.

Thus, I did something stupid and began to drink. But I also hated the bitter taste of alcohol almost as much as I hated the sweet taste of pastries. Both were some of the fowler things to have graced the earth, in my opinion, though I'll admit that cocktails and cakes were both delightful to look at, at least.

But as it turns out, when I was drunk, the lines between my likes and dislikes began to blur, and all of a sudden, cakes began to seem so _very_ delicious.

That's how I ended up in Claire de Lune, a newly opened pastry shop right near my townhouse. I had passed by it a few times before, only to scoff at its menu, which held nothing but sweets and that disgustingly bitter liquid that went by the name of "coffee." They didn't have even a drop of tea, or perhaps some edible flavor of scone, or—god forbid—an actually _tart_ tart.

So you can bet my surprise when I woke up the next morning with a blazing headache, lying in a bed I did not recognize, with the smell of baking wafting around my head like a suffocatingly toxic fume. I was almost choking on it, and that in itself would have already alarmed me, had the situation as a whole also not seemed like my own personal version of a horror serial killer movie where I had just been kidnapped, tied up and was patiently awaiting my fate.

Right. Like I would just lie there and let the Pastry Psychopath have his way with me.

I sprang up, which I immediately realized was a poor decision the moment my vision began to blur and the room began to spin. Emitting a low groan, I fell back onto the soft pillow and closed my eyes once again. Okay, perhaps I was being a much easier target than I wanted to be.

I was lying there for a few minutes of silence before I heard the door to the room turn. Immediately, my eyes opened once again and my head swiveled to face the door. This hangover was being an absolute prick about letting me concentrate, and if I ended up dying because of it, you can bet that I as ready to smite all the alcohol manufacturers and vendors from my high seat in heaven. I would have my vengeance.

"You awake, man?" a soft voice asked from behind the door.

It took a moment before my eyes could focus, but when they did, I made sure to immediately memorize the face of my killer—the vaguely round, innocently boyish, bespectacled and freakishly handsome face of my killer.

Wait, what?

I gave a soft groan in reply, unable to say much else. I needed some water, otherwise I would have been sounding like that girl from "The Grudge" for the rest of the conversation. And as much as I was feeling sick from the pain and nauseated from the sweet, pastry aromas, I did not hate the stranger at the door so much as to make him relive that movie. I couldn't sleep for _months _after seeing it.

"Water," I croaked.

"Oh! Right. Sorry! Be right back." The guy at the door fumbled around for a bit, clearly wondering whether or not to close the door and go, or just leave so as to get the water faster. Honestly, with the amount of time he spent debating, he could have closed the door, retrieved the glass, learned the piano, performed at Carnegie, then came back and given me my water.

"_Water_," I tried again, louder this time. That seemed to snap him out of it, sending him running down the hall. He returned with a full _pitcher_ for god's sake, and it also wasn't water. It was reddish, like wine, with ice cubes floating within. I would have argued against it, but I was a bit too thirsty to care.

"Sorry, dude. This was the fastest thing I could find," he apologized as he handed me a filled glass. I accepted it, thinking of how unlikely it was that anything could be found _faster than water_, but I had no capacity to voice it. I gulped down the drink, some sort of tangy, vaguely sweet tea. Sort of like what I imagined hibiscus mixed with passionfruit would taste like. Possibly with a touch of rose hip as well?

I gratefully took another glass, which he automatically poured, and drank that down as well before I began to feel my throat clear up just a bit. My head was still swimming, but the cold liquid seemed to have helped it find at least a little clarity.

"You okay?" he asked, handing me yet another glass, which I sipped on slowly this time around. "You were out like a light last night."

I assessed him carefully, taking in his flour dusted apron, crooked glasses, and messy "The Who" shirt (at least he had good taste in music). The part that was most evident amount him, though, was his kind and gentle smile, which warmed me up, as I was sure the concern he felt for me came straight from the bottom of his heart.

There was no way this guy could have been a murderer. Or if he was, he hid it very well behind a _delightfully_ attractive front. And best of all, he didn't seem as into neon and crazy hairstyles as the kids in the gay quarter had been. This could have actually worked.

—Dear Lord, was I already assessing him as a potential date? I didn't even know his sexual orientation, let alone anything else about him. God was I desperate.

"I'm... I'm fine, I guess," I muttered, trying to get my voice back to normal. "Just a hangover." I glanced at him, smiling ever so slightly. "I'm sure you've had those before."

_Was I flirting_?

Wow, my mind had moved quickly from the idea of a serial killer to that of a could-be boyfriend, hadn't it?

"Haha yeah, I've experienced hangovers before," he said in reply, enchanting me with his voice just as his startlingly blue eyes pulled me in. "They suck, don't they?"

I nodded, but winced and groaned halfway through. I could sense his pity, and I wanted nothing of it. This wasn't the best way to make a good first impression. He was seeing me at one of my weakest moments, for as I said, I seldom fell to drinking. So was it bad luck or good luck that I had somehow ended in his care because of it, whoever he was?

"Yeah," I muttered, taking another sip. I opened my mouth to ask him for a little bit of the backstory as to my situation, but he interrupted me with a gentle slap on my back.

"Tell ya what," he said, beaming down on me with one of the most dazzling smiles I had ever encountered. "I know exactly the thing to give you for a hangover. We can talk after you've had some good ol' Alfred F. Jones homemade fare."

So _that _was his name. It had quite a nice ring to it, and it fell off the tongue all at once, as if too excited to stay behind—sort of like how I imagined beholder of the name himself would be.

I quietly repeated it to myself a few times, getting this odd feeling of familiarity, despite being quite sure that I had never heard it before. It was a bit before I noticed that I was staring at him, and he was staring right back, causing me to blush and avert my eyes to the interesting tea concoction in my hands.

"Sounds good," I murmured, talking about the name rather than whatever else it was that he had said. I hadn't really heard anything besides that, his voice having been too soothing and inviting for me to focus on much else.

"Great!" he exclaimed, and I was dragged to the kitchen before I had time to even register what was going on.

* * *

"So let me get this straight," I murmured, my headache clearing up after he had given me some acetaminophen, with the promise of ibuprofen after I had eaten something. "This is your home, and you took me here last night on your boss's orders?"

"Yep!" he replied, smiling as he flipped over yet another pancake. There was also something in the oven under the stove, though it smelled so sickeningly sweet that it was all I could do not to hiss and back up like a cat, or pull out my cross and garlic cloves.

"Well," he amended, "Boss told me to, but there were other reasons. But they're not important." He flashed me a reassuring smile and turned back to the pan.

"Uh... where do you work, exactly?"

That question stopped him short. Alfred glanced over and stared at me for a moment before laughing, the sound echoing in the spacious kitchen like the sweet tones of a bell choir. If I got to wake up to this more often, I wouldn't have minded another blaring hangover or two.

"You really don't remember much, do you?" he murmured, still laughing as he shook his head and returned to his pancakes.

"No," I admitted. It troubled me, since he had made it sound like there was a lot to remember. Just how much had I done last night—and more importantly, _what_ had I done?

Alfred whistled. "Perhaps it's for the better," he teased, sending me a wink that homed right in on my crotch.

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair and averted my eyes, clearing my throat. I scratched the back of my neck, hoping that he didn't notice just how aroused I was at the moment, despite my unkempt and hungover state. He was just so bewitching, with the way his hips moved when he walked, the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled, and the way his hair fell when he flipped it back, his hands too dirty to touch his head himself.

In other words, he was just drop dead _gorgeous_.

"What do you mean 'for the better'?" I asked, trying to keep my greedy eyes off of his perfectly formed arse. Luckily, working at the stove meant that he was often turned the other way. That meant that I had a beautiful view, and he would be left none the wiser.

Alfred slid the last of the pancakes onto a large plate, then brought it over to the table along with a bottle of overly processed (and likely overly sweet) syrup. He placed them down and then plopped into the seat across from me, fork and knife at the ready.

"I'll tell you after," he replied, stacking seven pancakes upon his own plate. "Eat first."

I stared at the piles of pancakes between us in awe. There must have been at least fifty, and I could barely see his smiling face over how high they were stacked. The pancakes were a barrier between us, seemingly great and insurmountable. I didn't want that, and if anything, it pushed me even faster to the idea of eating, just so that I could get rid of whatever separated us from each other.

"I'll hold you to that," I said, as I retrieved my starter set of two and dug in without further ado.

We ate in relative silence, though it surprised me just how comfortable I was with the situation. I would have thought it awkward to have been sitting here, eating breakfast at a stranger's house right across from said stranger, to whom I was quite inexplicably attracted. But it wasn't. I was enjoying myself quite well, and I hoped from the smile that I could see on his Alfred's face that he was enjoying it too.

I never really cared much for pancakes, but these ones were admittedly delicious. Whenever I would eat pancakes, however, I tended to eat mine either plain or lightly buttered, and occasionally with a side of fruits, but nothing else. I noticed that Alfred doused his pancakes in syrup, and when I made a face and commented on it, he merely replied with a grin, "Well, dude, it ain't a bad thing if you don't like it. It just means more for me, right?"

That really warmed my heart for some reason. I mean, I barely knew him, yet here I was, already overjoyed that he was accepting me for my likes and dislikes, taking them as they were. Plus, he was right, wasn't he? He didn't use any butter when he ate, and I didn't use any syrup. Call me a sappy and sentimental heart all you want, but I sort of thought that combination made us the perfect pair, or at the very least, the perfect dining buddies.

Thus, as I ate, I was positively beaming. My headache was lightening, the pancakes were delicious, and the _view_ was fantastic. Not much could make up a better morning._  
_

In the time it took me to eat two pancakes, Alfred had downed his seven and quite a few more as well. Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, the barrier between us was gone, leaving only a few crumbs behind. I was completely full, but that usually took only about five or six pancakes... meaning that the rest had gone to Alfred.

Alfred had downed at least _thirty pancakes_. That had to be the number, I was quite sure. There was no way it could have been any less, judging by the sheer size of the task that had lain before us at the beginning of breakfast.

My _God_.

"Surprised?" Alfred asked, grinning at me with smugness as he popped the very last bite of pancakes into his mouth.

"Well, I mean... _yeah_." I stared at the demolished pile in absolute awe, then I glanced between it and Alfred until I was sure my eyes were going to fall off from the effort. "How did you—I mean— what—"_  
_

"Yeah, I get that a lot," he laughed.

A surprisingly large surge of envy gripped my heart, freezing me on the spot. It was irrational, and I knew I had no right to the emotion, but from the way he had said it, it sounded like Alfred ate with other people often. Maybe he cooked for them often too. It sounded like this was just the usual for him, and I didn't want it to be "the usual," because for me, it was very special.

How long had it been since I last ate breakfast with somebody else? How long had it been since I had a home-cooked meal that wasn't—I'm not going to lie—terrible tasting? How long had it been since someone was there to take care of me while I had a hangover, even if hangovers were rare occurrences in my life?

A long time. Nearly a decade.

That was why this morning was turning out to be so beautiful already, in my eyes, despite its short progression so far. I hadn't had this much fun and this wonderful "homey" experience in such a long time that it felt almost completely new, like I had never ever had it before. Thus, Alfred's words had stung quite a bit, even if he clearly hadn't intend it to be that way.

Alfred must have seen something in my eyes, because he abruptly stood up, swept our dishes to the sink, and called out over his shoulder, "Don't think I'm done yet, Arthur. There's still one last thing." He then dusted his hands off on his already over-floured apron and leaned down to open the oven.

I winced when the door came down, ready for the onslaught of the sweet aroma upon my nostrils. I set about distracting myself by downing my ibuprofen together with my glass of water, hoping that the liquid's soothing characteristics would work its wonders upon my stomach and keep it calm. Yes, the pancakes had been great, but I knew of nothing on earth that could have been good enough that my stomach would still fight to keep it down in the face of something sweet.

Alfred straightened up and pulled out a perfectly baked pie, golden brown with a crust that looked so utterly flaky that I bet it would have simply melted in my mouth. Along the sides, pink and purple liquid was still bubbling up, an odd color for the conventional pie contents, but it looked divine nevertheless. And that's what I hated about it. Baked goods had to be some of the most evil things ever invented, considering they always looked so delicious, so tantalizingly alluring with their buttery color here and crispy texture there. But then every time I fell for one of their many wily charms, they never failed to make me sick to my stomach. Talk about bait and switch.

I luckily managed to distract myself sufficiently enough with the medicine, and then with my eyes after Alfred had set the pie on the counter. When he leaned back down to close the oven doors, I was treated to another perfect view of his delectable behind, beautifully displayed by his tight-fitting jeans. I had never before loved skinny jeans more than I had then, and I definitely hadn't understood them until that moment. Whoever invented them deserved and award, for they definitely knew what they were talking about.

"See something you like?"

Alfred's voice pulled me back to reality. He was staring back at me, with a look that spoke volumes, causing me to blush as I averted my eyes to the tablecloth, a slew of swears running rampant through my head. I had been caught red handed—well, more like red faced.

"I... Uh..." How was I supposed to explain my way out of this?

"It's all right," he laughed, bringing the pie over to the table. "Stare all you want. It's much better than what happened last night, at least."

My heart stopped at those words.

"L-Last night?"

I glanced up to meet his eyes, searching for any deeper meaning in his gaze. Although he was still laughing, there was a sincerity there that meant he was speaking the truth. I still couldn't remember anything very well, and in my mind, last night was just a haze of sounds and colors. But whatever it was that I did, it must have been absolutely terrible (and undoubtedly embarrassing) in order for Alfred to react so calmly to me blatantly staring at his behind.

"You promised you'd tell me what happened," I muttered, trying desperately to fend off the blood that was rushing to my already blazing cheeks.

"So I did," he murmured, setting the pie down and picking up the knife. He cut off a small slice very carefully and placed it on a plate before pushing it over to me.

"And I_ will_ tell you," he continued, "after you eat this first."

The thought of putting something sweet inside my esophagus was enough to distract me from my fears about what possibly could have happened. I was grateful for the change, but not for what subject my mind had moved to thinking about in exchange.

I stared down at the slice apprehensively, noting its bluish, pink and purple hues. Pies seldom sat well with me, mostly because they were often some of the sweetest dessert pieces out there. But since this was Alfred, and I was trying to get on his good side (though it might have been for a lost cause, for all that I knew), I was faced with a tough choice: to eat it and risk throwing up, and thus offending Alfred, or to refuse and not eat it, which likely would have offended him as well?

I could see it already; this situation wasn't going to end well.

I swallowed nervously, glancing around the tablecloth for any sort of distraction. I needed some time to think of a better excuse, but until then, all I could do was futs around pointlessly.

"What's in it?"

Alfred sat down himself and leaned his chin upon steepled fingers, staring at me with eyes that suddenly smouldered with a different sort of light than before. He all of a sudden seemed more keen, more observant and mature. He still appeared innocent, but it was more of a devilish naiveté, if that made any sense at all.

With a small amused smile, as if he knew something I didn't, he replied, "Strawberries, blackberries, boysenberries, and black currants."

I blinked. Those were my favorite fruits.

I stared at him, unsure as to whether or not I should have been more surprised by the fact that he knew what they were, or by the fact that he had managed to gather all the ingredients together in time to bake this the morning after we had only just met. Whatever way it was, Alfred had amazed me.

"Go on," he said, holding out a fork to me. "Try it."

I glanced back down at the dessert. Based upon the fruits involved, it did actually sound quite appetizing. But as I mentioned, sweet things were known for their uncanny bait-and-switch abilities. I wasn't quite ready to throw up in front of Alfred just yet (especially since I felt like I was actually getting somewhere with this; he had laughed quite a few times in this conversation, hadn't he?). Plus, my headache seemed to be reducing greatly, and I had also somehow managed to bypass the classic hangover hurling session by the toilet thus far, and I didn't want to break my streak.

Sensing my need for further encouragement, Alfred leaned in and stared me straight in the eyes, his own pair blazing with earnestness and some other emotion I couldn't fathom. It was amusement on some level, but there was something deeper than that that was burning with an icy blue blaze.

"If you eat it," he murmured, winking, "I guarantee you that you'll understand what happened last night."

God, if eating some pie would grant me more winks from Alfred, then I'd gladly eat every bakery in the block out of house and home. If I was going to get sick, it might as well have been for a good cause. Plus, if his suave voice and bewitching winks didn't get me, then his last words surely did.

With a deep breath, I took the proffered fork. I picked up a small piece of pie, making sure to get the perfect balance between crust and filling. The fruit pieces looked tantalizingly glazed over, the crust even flakier than before, now that it had had a little bit of time to cool, but not too much.

_You're doing this for the chance at a date_, I reminded myself, staring down my old time enemy as I swore it stared right back. Then, with my eyes closed, I gingerly lifted the fork to my lips, hesitated for only a fraction of a second, bit down, and pulled my hand away.

My fork hit the ground with a resounding clash.

I glanced frantically between the pie and Alfred, trying to register the complicated yet incredibly simple textures and tastes running rampant in my mouth. This pie was delicious. It was beyond delicious._  
_

It was utterly _indescribable._

First off, the crust was perfectly buttery, lending it just enough of a rich taste, but not enough to be overpowering. The fruits were cooked to just the ideal softness, and there was just enough sweetness to balance out the tartness for a resounding taste that I had seldom experienced in any pie before. I was especially impressed with the strawberries, though, simply due to the fact that their level of sourness naturally varied so much from piece to piece that it was nigh impossible to get them correct when mixed baking.

Yet somehow, Alfred had done it. He had done it perfectly.

"Do you remember now?" he asked, a smirk playing at his lips.

I stared at him. Yes. Yes I did remember. I remembered walking into Claire de Lune, though I didn't remember many of the details beyond that. Nevertheless, based on the evidence, I was quite sure that that bakery was Alfred's workplace. Heck, I wouldn't have been surprised if he was their head pastry chef, and he would have deserved that position too, considering his skill.

Based upon his knowing smile, I also could guess that I had likely ordered something in my drunken stupor. I had probably stood there, staring blankly at the menu until I had finally managed to pick something random, and I likely had eaten it right then and there too. And if it had been Alfred's work, then...

Shit.

When I was young, my mother used to tell me that if anyone ever managed to make me like sweets, that person would be a keeper. My mother said that whoever she was, I should chase after that girl to the ends of the Earth, because it was likely that she would also be the one to change me in many other ways, and all for the better. Well, from a young age, I had known I was gay, so I always amended it to "he" whenever she said that, but the same meaning stood nevertheless.

She had said it so often that I actually began to believe her a little bit. In my teenage years, I went through this period where I sought out specific bakeries known for their cake and pastry prowess, and I tried a great majority of their items just to see if somewhere out there, something really did exist that was right for me.

Needless to say, this was a painful time in my life, full of cringing, gagging, and a whole lot of throwing up. I just couldn't stomach much of anything those bakeries could provide, and it left me grumpy and quite disenchanted with my mother and her "tall tales." This probably explained my rebellious punk period during the latter half of my teenage years.

Luckily, during college, I had managed to clean myself up, come out to my parents (they were luckily quite accepting), get myself a nice boyfriend, and in general sort out my priorities to the point where I graduated feeling quite confident in what my future would hold. Upon graduation, I got myself a good job, worked my way up to a comfortable position with a cushy salary, and found myself a nice life as a bachelor—that is, until I reached thirty, and we all know what happened there.

Nevertheless, as it stood, I had all but forgotten my mom's silly comment until now, when it all came crashing back down upon me.

And now that I had tasted this pastry, now that I had looked into Alfred's burning eyes, I was quite sure I knew exactly what had happened, and my face was pale with fear, yet crimson with embarrassment. Was that even possible? And more importantly, if what I thought had happened had actually happened, then why was Alfred still even here, keeping this odd quack in his house?

I buried my face in my hands, glancing at Alfred's patient yet intent expression through the cracks in my fingers. Taking a deep breath, I addressed the inevitable.

"I asked you out, didn't I?"

To my surprise, he thew his head back and laughed. The sound was so bright and sincere, though, that there was no way it could have been taken badly. He was merely amused by me, and I felt a little proud of that, despite the circumstances.

"No," he replied, causing me to exhale in relief, letting go of a breath I hadn't even realized I had been holding. "You didn't 'ask me out,' Arthur. But..."

And just as quickly as my apprehensions had begun to fade, they came rushing right back, eager to take up their positions once again. Alfred smiled, a ghost of a smirk gracing his lips which I found quite sexually frustrating to look at, though I had more pressing things with which I had to occupy my mind at that moment.

Alfred winked. "You proposed to me."

I _what?_

I sputtered and coughed, sure that I had heard him wrong. I had proposed? In the romantic sense? In the sense that involved rings and knees and tears and, well, _relationships_? Had I really walked in there, ordered cake, eaten it, then casually asked someone to marry me, all in one night?

"Calm down, Arthur," Alfred murmured soothingly, chuckling at the sight of my face, which I was sure was beet red. "It wasn't that bad. Just breathe."

I tried to take his advice, I really did. But air was just not cooperating with me, and neither was life, come to think of it.

"What exactly happened?" I managed to utter quietly, still dumbfounded by his words.

Alfred shrugged, far more calm about this than I had expected him to be. Then again, if I had somehow ended up at his house even after having made such a fool of myself, the rest of the story couldn't have been all that bad, could it?

"What you would expect," he replied. "I said no."

Despite how absurd the situation was, I couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit depressed at the answer. Of course, it was no surprise, but that didn't mean it didn't hit me just as hard as it would have otherwise. I really was growing fond of Alfred Jones, and my heart was sinking at the thought that most likely, he probably considered me to be an old and drunken creep in return. That didn't make for a nice, datable combination.

"Ah, I'm... err... sorr—"

"Don't be," he laughed, gesturing the matter away. He crossed his arms upon the table and leaned in closer, his eyes glinting playfully. "I might have said no to marriage, but in return, you know," he murmured, "_I_ asked _you_ out."

If I had been drinking anything, I would have spit it all over the floor. But as it stood, I simply sputtered and did a double take, in which I reexamined what he had said from any and all possible angles. But no. There was no way that I had heard that wrong.

"_What? _You asked— I mean you— me—"

"Yep!" He grinned. "And you accepted."

"I _accepted?_"

Alfred nodded. How was it that he could have held such a smug expression over that little fact? How was it that it seemed to make him so proud of himself that he had managed to pull that off, to ask me out and get an acceptance from me? Yeah, I might have been drunk, but I wasn't _stupid_ (okay, that was debatable, considering the events that had transpired). Nevertheless, I knew a wonderful guy when I saw one, so there had _never_ been any possibility of me not accepting in the first place.

"That means..." I began, walking on shaky ground, "I— you— _we_ are... together?"

Alfred laughed and proceeded to cut himself a slice of pie as we spoke (a pie about which I had completely forgotten, given the circumstances, despite how good it was).

"Well, I think we should be," he murmured, "but if you're regretting your words, then—"

"No, it's not like that," I reassured him. Perhaps I was a bit _too_ quick to reassure him. After all, I didn't want to seem like some overeager guy who was already head-over-heels in love, not with just the looks, not with just the baking prowess, but with him as a human being on the whole. Even his slang seemed adorable to me, and if that wasn't a giant sign that we were right for each other, I didn't know what was.

"It's just..." I ran a hand through my hair, combing it deeply and scratching my scalp in a way that I knew would relax me. "I just can't quite believe it." I looked up and caught his gaze. "Why?"

"Why? Why did I ask you out?"

"Yeah."

Alfred grinned devilishly. "Well, you were quite convincing about it, you see. You told me that once upon a time, your mother had this saying that went—"

"You can be quiet now!" I said. To ensure his silence, I reached across the table and placed a finger upon his lips—an action which I regretted immediately upon contact. They were warm and sticky from the bite of pie that he had just taken, and that sensation immediately made me think of other things.

Alfred grinned and nibbled upon the tip of my finger, which made me retract it immediately. My face was ablaze, and I half stood, half sat there awkwardly, wondering just what to do. Somehow, I had just found myself a boyfriend, and I barely even knew anything about him, other than the fact that he was so very attractive, in each and every aspect. I didn't even know how old he was, what he liked to wear on casual Fridays, where he liked to eat, etc.

"What do we..." I shrugged, feeling embarrassed for my lack of dating knowledge. I was never that popular when I was young, and any action I did have, I had all but forgotten by how, especially regarding the matter of starting relationships. That had always been the most awkward part for me. And it didn't help matters that I still couldn't quite believe that this was at all real. I half expected myself to wake up at any moment to find myself lying back in bed in my own townhouse. I mean, just how outlandish was this situation, really?

"What do we do now?" I finally managed to ask, deciding to run with it. If it was a dream, then I'd at least enjoy it while I could.

"We get to know each other," Alfred replied, grinning.

He took another bite of pie and stood up, walking over to my side of the table with that gentle sway of the hips that I had already come to know and love. Before I could even register what he was doing, he took me by the tie and pulled me in, landing a kiss right upon my lips—sensual, sexy, and _sweet_.

Seeing as he seemed intent on not letting go any time soon, I let my momentary surprise pass, then closed my eyes and enjoyed it for what it was. Who knew how long it'd be until I would ever be kissed again, if this really was a dream? And if it wasn't, then I sure was not going to make the same mistake that I had made with my ex. I would treasure Alfred beyond anything else in the world.

Maybe my mother had been right after all. Out of all the crazy things she had ever said, I had always thought this little thing about "the one" to be the most unlikely. I had always thought her crazy for her active imagination, especially as she let it roam wildly over the subject of me and my future life. But now it seemed like she had finally hit upon something correctly, because as we kissed, his lips tasting of strawberries and still sticky with glaze, I already knew deep in my heart what my mother had been telling me over and over all these years (though she just didn't quite know the details).

Alfred F. Jones would change the way I felt about sweets. He would change the way I felt about many things, I was sure. In other words, he was definitely, as my mother would glowingly say, "a keeper."

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

This is for Haku and Dunya, since they mentioned me writing fluff for Sweethearts Week as compensation for the Not-So-Classic Heartbreak (this shall be the official name for the kokoro breaking, henceforth), and also for justa-fangirl, since I've been destroying her kokoro too. Plus, I sorta felt like I owed _all_ of you guys some fluff after the torrential pain that I've been raining on you from that fic. I mean, I would apologize for that, but face it: I love causing heartbreak (fufufufufufufu~). I'll fix it all up eventually, though, I promise. And then they'll get their happy ending (though who knows about Francis, right? ;]). But until then, I hope at least this fluff will hold you over, ne?

(But I don't write fluff all that much, so I'm not sure if this even counts. Is this fluff? Does it work? Or does fluff involve them being already in love or something? I don't know. HALP ME. If this doesn't count, then I'll make the next one extra _extra_ fluffy. Or at least I'll try?)

I have also learned that I really like to think of Alfred as good looking. He's always stunningly handsome in everything I write, and I don't think I could write it differently. Sometimes, Arthur could be handsome himself, but sometimes, he could also only be _really _handsome in Alfred's eyes and Alfred's eyes alone. But _Alfred_, on the other hand, he's handsome all the time in my head. In the general sense. JUST SO GOOD LOOKING I CAN'T HELP IT, SHEESH. God I love that guy. So much. SO MUCH. 3

Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Happy reading!

- Galythia


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